Martin made his days on his fishing boat and managing the family businesses. On this day, Martin, a tall older man well past 70 years in age, was making his way across the inlet of Sugarloaf Sound, a bay between the islands of the Florida Keys. The sun was low in the west as his long gray hair, held by a black band tied behind his head, blew in the wind. Carefully, his dark blue wrinkled eyes watched as his boat made its way past the reefs that were covered with many old wrecks—boat wrecks whose former captains were not nearly as experienced as himself.

To his back, several men on the lower decks talked over the day’s catch. Three long swordfish hung by hooks in the breeze as the men toasted the day’s victory with bottles of beer. Tall tales filled the air as to how hard each of the fish had fought and how long it took each of the fishermen to pull them in. For these men who spent their vacations chasing fish off of the coast of Florida, it was glorious, and Martin took some small pleasure in hearing their joy and funny tales.

Martin yelled out, “Jimmy, stand on the point now! I’m cutting the speed! Make sure the reef hasn’t drifted inside the channel markers!”

Martin had a strong, hefty voice with the sounds of Ireland in it. Ireland was where he was born and where he learned to work the sea. In those days, fishing was a job that helped give him something separate from his family’s world. Now, it was a great joy to teach so many thrill seekers the art of fishing. Martin gazed out across the water as he remembered how long ago that was and how much had changed since then. All he had ever wanted to be was a fisherman. But Martin was not born into a family of fishermen. He was born into a family with many responsibilities. As a boy, and then as a young adult, Martin had turned his back on those responsibilities. He pondered as he gazed at the silvery blue sea how different life would have been had he grown up a little sooner than later and had accepted rather than run from those responsibilities.

Jimmy, the deck hand, an older looking thin fellow with unusually long black hair with white streaks and the look of an unshaven overly tan pop star, now stood all forward and kept a keen eye as they moved closer and closer to shore.

“I don’t trust those channel markers!” shouted Martin.

He shouted the same thing every time the boat came in. Coral reefs were unpredictable, and in Florida they were everywhere. While the markers said it was safe to move through, the truth was that a shift in the current could pile sand up on any one of them in just a few short hours.